Page 34 of Stud

“Owen! Need you inside.” Nick’s bellow was a harsh reminder we were at a busy worksite. Not alone. Nowhere we could unleash this woolly mammoth sexual tension.

Still, we didn’t move. We breathed, I think. Once or twice.

Then Owen said, “Lunch.” One gravelly syllable.

He didn’t need to say more. Lunch was in one hour. Although I had an avocado, white bean, and strawberry salad waiting in my car, I’d wager the only thing I’d be eating in fifty-eight minutes was Owen. I was ready to inhale this man.

“Lunch.” My confirming syllable was pure whimper.

His hand dropped from my hip. We turned at the same time. Moved our feet in time, too. Suddenly, everything was in sync. The molecules between us vibrated—dusty particles floating on a cloud of lust.

We stopped at the entrance to the house, and he clutched the doorjamb. The marionette I’d become, I stopped, too. Waiting. Watching. Fascinated I’d soon be free to touch and taste my fill. His fingers turned white from gripping the wood. Or possibly from not gripping me. A dusting of hair spanned between his knuckles. I wanted to drag my nose over that blond fur, pinch the skin between each thick finger, nibble on his wrist bones.

Fifty-seven minutes and counting.

His brown eyes were usually rich with honeyed swirls lighting sections. Like Aazam’s sixty-percent chocolate streaked with salted caramel. The dark brown stunners lasering into me now were nearing seventy-five percent, darker and more sinful.

What would it take to get them to a raw one-hundred percent?

I eyed the bulge striking a sharp angle behind his zipper. “Make sure not to hammer anything important.”

He groaned, and the bulge twitched. We went about our work.

Seventeen minutes later, he eye-fucked me for thirty-eight seconds.

At the twenty-nine minute mark, I sucked a cut on my finger just for him.

Minute forty-one found us brushing horny elbows. I nearly came.

The last five minutes were the worst. My hardhat felt two sizes too small, my breasts two sizes too big. The earth’s atmosphere had lost nine-tenths of its oxygen, and my tool belt weighed as much as the heavy ache between my thighs. Everything felt swollen. My T-shirt and skinny jeans would surely need to be cut off.

Then his large hand engulfed mine.

The volunteers had begun drifting off the site, heading for a quick burger or bagged lunch. Owen’s fingers threading between mine promised more.

He tugged me forward, but I yanked him back. “Hardhat.”

Sentences were no longer an option.

His eyes darkened to eighty-five percent and a low growl rumbled from his chest, like he was pissed off. I felt the same. Angry to delay this for another millisecond.

We pried our hands apart for the time it took for us to leave our hardhats in the onsite tent and dump our tool belts in his truck. Then my small hand was enveloped by his again as we walked purposefully to our park. His strides were long. My short legs did small hop-steps to keep up. His grip tightened, nearly cutting off my circulation, and I unleashed a nervous-excited-when-did-this-become-my-life cackle.

Things were going to get fun fast.

Owen dragged me over the curb, the sprawling grass doing some sort of swaying tantric dance, the leaves above singing a chorus of “Let’s Get it On.” The pavement behind us swallowed the world. When we skirted our picnic table, he swung me around until my back hit our white ash tree.

He stared down at me, his eyes now at ninety-five percent. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

“Your hotness is at a nuclear level.”

“Your eyes remind me of the beach.”

“Yours are sinful chocolate.”

“If you only knew how badly I want you.”

Man, oh, man. “If you only knew how many times I came with your face burning the backs of my eyelids.”